how i met you
by avaire
Summary: This is the story of how Barney and Robin met and kept meeting through the years, through their fake selves, their real selves, and everything in between. Short POV drabbles for every episode. Literally.
1. what hijacked my world that night

It was 2005, and I was hanging out with some new friends. Since I had only recently moved to the US, my social group consisted of a few female colleagues from work. I was testing the waters, you know, finding my niche. And I had just finished my second martini. I felt good that night. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I didn't really want to commiserate with Laura and her boyfriend troubles. What I really wanted was to let loose, to let my hair down. I mean, everyone around me kept saying how fun America was. When was I going to see any of that? I wanted, nay, _needed_ to party the American way.

At the same time, I was not ready to lose those precious new friendships I had so tenaciously forged, so I went along with their conversation. Yep, guys were gross. Guys would break your heart ten ways to tomorrow. Guys with good looks who were also sweet, loving, caring, and loyal were rare. Had I dated anyone like that? Nope, only d-bags of the highest order, Laura. I feel your pain.

Then the topic spiraled onto another tangent. A topic more to my style and liking.

What constituted a hot guy anyway? Nice jawline? Abs? Front row seats to the gun show?

Yeah, I said that last one. Not that any of the girls thought I meant it literally. But I literally meant it literally. Guns are hot.

When I got up to talk to Jillian, who had arrived late, you, standing at the bar and pretending to look casual and unimpressed, caught my eye. Not because you were super hot or particularly sexy but because you were wearing a suit. Like…full on suited up, tie and all, and I thought you looked ridiculous. Like MacLaren's most douchey regular. That meant I was not interested, thank you very much, although you _were_ kinda cute and taller than me—which is an important criterion—_and_ you pulled off the blond look very well. That's rare for a dude.

Then my gaze drifted, and I saw your friend with the black hair and the big eyes. You said something to him, something I knew I didn't want to know. It didn't matter. I was already running ruses in my mind, trying to figure out the best way to casually introduce myself to him. I settled on the easiest, most reliable method of approach. I call it the "Invade His Space," and the steps are simple. Get on a cute guy's radar by getting all up in his business. So hair tucked behind my ear, lipstick fresh, I told my girlfriends I'd buy the next round of drinks before squeezing my way into his line of view.

My heart started to beat faster, my body heating up with that heady rush that often follows my attempts for attention. I had always appreciated the lingering looks, no matter how pervy, and the so-called "accidental" brush ups against my boobs by horny guys. I was sexy, okay, and I was not ashamed of showing off my God given goods. My feminine wiles were gifts, generous endowments my dad so hated, but gifts I loved and wanted to flaunt in order to seduce Mr. "Too Shy to Talk to Me So I'll Just Stand Here Eyeballing You All Night." Typical guy.

But you were no typical guy. Although it was disappointing that you, and not _him,_ approached me first, I played it cool and let you invade my space. Your finger touched my shoulder. You said some words. Then you slipped away, and I felt a flash of gratitude toward your retreating form before forgetting you completely, totally, and utterly.

Because that was how I met Ted.


	2. behind that little smile i wore

It was 2005, and you were a saucy little minx, and I knew it. We all knew it, given that "we" here means human beings with male genitalia. But Ted, the suit-less ninny, didn't know it because he was just so in love with you in the most stalker-like, most creepy of ways. He didn't realize that in the way you waggled your brows, the way you held your glass, even in the way you sat at our booth like you belonged that you _vibrated_ sex and _oozed_ dirtiness. It hummed from every pore of you. You reeked of pheromones—the female variety of which I can totally sense, by the way—and of someone who knew what she wanted in bed. Mm. Hot.

And I thought Ted was super stupid for not tapping that when he had the chance.

Instead he pronounced his love and threw three super lame parties hoping you'd show up to one. That sounded pointless. And boring. No sex, just talk?

No thanks.

Yet, lo and behold, you were generous enough to make an appearance; then later at the bar you made fun of me.

I mean, really? Carlos? Carlos, dressed like a dirty hippie and sitting with a girl in his lap? It was a recipe for disaster. They worked together! What did he have that I did not have?

And in front of my three closest friends, you said, "A date tonight." Lily told you to rewind, play it again.

A date tonight?

Well, _Robin,_ I was not sure I liked you. God. Saucy little minx. I bet you looked good naked, tied to my headboard.

It was a good thing then that Ted wanted you so bad. Like Bro Code Article 5, Section 17 states: a bro shall not paw around another bro's sandbox, especially one with which he has fallen into deep, disturbing infatuation despite not having figured out whether it's full of spiders.


	3. sometimes i wonder why it's been so long

Lily just had a rough night trying to get guys to hit on her. It was awkward watching her attempts, though I totally felt her pain. To no longer be the girl guys drooled over? To no longer get free stuff for being hot? Yeah, anyone would've had a hard time getting over that.

Poor Lily. I thought Marshall was great, but it seemed like such a drag having a boyfriend or fiancé or husband hovering around, cockblocking your every whim and wish. It was the twenty-first century. A girl was nothing if not free. Sure, I told Lily that all the ladies at the bar were looking for what she already had in Marshall, so devoted and loving, but that was empty advice. I wasn't looking for a Marshall. Maybe if he came packaged only in the friends-with-benefits deal; I definitely did not want the full-blown Marshmallow and Lilypad, nickname-y, snuggly adventure.

And that is why Ted and I tried to be friends. No matter how charming and funny and sweet, he was too intense. I mean, what sort of person tells a girl "I love you" after one date? After having known me for _one night? _Cuckoo goes the commitment clock. I had just arrived from Canada in April. I was not looking to settle down. As stupid and lame as my news reports were, work was my priority. A long term boyfriend would have stifled me.

Although there was something so…undeniable about Ted. And genuine. But also flirtatious. I sat there after you two had come back from licking the Liberty Bell, and I sneaked glances at him while he flirted with a girl at the bar. His hair ruffled, his face expressing the whole "I'm into you!" look, and I don't know. It made me a little bit jealous. If he could fall so easily for other women, then I wasn't exceptional anymore. I wasn't special. I was just another girl you helped him land, wingman style. Except Ted and I did not have sex, so you kind of failed there. _And _you failed at landing him the girl at the bar that night. Thanks.

Anyway, you. You were a riot. Beer, as I soon learned, made you extra vulgar and scarily sentimental. And then there was your complete lack of shame, which was a strange thing to get a hold of. You told us how you picked up girls at the airport by pretending to be a businessman; how you and Ted tried that very play; how you both flew to Philly and got arrested and handcuffed. The oddest part was how you said all of that with a straight face and a smile. I sat next to you, sipping my martini, and simply observed. You did weird things with your eyebrows when you talked.

For a split second I even felt bad for you. You seemed so pathetic. Kinda lonely. But you had such confidence in your words and your silly story that my thoughts drifted to why on earth a guy as sensible as Ted ended up being friends with you. Which meant, by extension, that you would become my friend.

I was not sure I was up for that. Not after you described, with great joie de vivre, stuffing a handcrafted Italian suitcase with five hundred condoms.


	4. do something pretty while you can

Step into my web, Robin.

Yeah, that's right.

Step into my web.

Some say bribery doesn't work, but it totally does. You fought and fought, but I got you to say nipple on the news. And it was glorious. _And, _it wasn't just about the money.

You and I both know that it wasn't about the money.

I recognized your frustration in the way you sat that night at MacLaren's. Shoulders a little hunched, head down. You smelled of strawberry hair conditioner and wine, an erotic combination that reminded me vaguely of busty dullards begging for Little Barney to stick them. Real good. The problem with that scenario was a) while you were busty, you were definitely _not_ dull and b) Ted had dibs on you. Kinda. Like implied dibs. Sure, I thought about your boobs, quivering under the heat of my warm breath and the masterful ministrations of my wet tongue, from time to time, but aside from those pre-bedtime fantasies, you were actually a bro. A bro in need of a challenge.

Which you accepted. And pulled off brilliantly, because it thrilled you to do the wrong thing and not be called out on it. You spent so much time working so hard for perfection that letting yourself be flawed just this once gave you a metaphorical boner (and for me, a literal one—what up!) harder than anything you'd felt before.

You're welcome.

The next time we spoke, I amped up the stakes. Two hundred bucks to tell the world that you're a dirty, dirty girl, which you totally were. I mean you pretty much confirmed it when you didn't say "no" to my request outright; you told me that you'd think about it. Then, to my greatest pleasure and surprise, you did it all. You slapped your own ass. You honked your boobs. The best part was that I recorded the segment on tape for our posterity to enjoy.

_Look, little Marvin, who's that there? Aunt Robin fondling herself on public television for all the world to see? _

Nailed it.


	5. thinking about our younger years

We were sitting at MacLaren's when you walked in wearing that sexy blouse and skirt and yeah…What was I saying? Oh, right, you asked Ted to say that he's your bitch. Which Ted totally was. Oh, Teddy boy.

You invited us to go clubbing, which for some reason was considered "fun" in '05. But I was young and hot, so hey, why not? Plus it was kinda cute how excited you were to get into the VIP room. I would've gladly have shown you _my_ VIP room if you'd only ask.

You were so generous. You offered to hook Ted up with your blond cutlet of a friend. I felt kind of left out. I had to ask:

So, do you have any other hot, single friends—

_No. _

Okay, Robin. Awesome. Though it kinda hurt that you didn't think I was worthy. I'm Barney Stinson. I was a catch. Still am.

And I resolved to teach you that lesson sooner or later.


	6. i wanna know what it's like

The first Halloween I spent at MacLaren's was hot, the kind of hot that got me going in a bad way. I dunno. I was seeing Mike, who was the epitome of sweetness, but I just did not feel that fulfilled with him. It felt much like, after weeks of craving rocky road ice cream, getting a fat scoop of chocolate ice cream instead and looking at it and wishing for marshmallows to magically sprout then thinking, _fuck, this will just have to do because I'm hungry and horny and—_yeah_._ Mike was close to something, but…actually, he wasn't close at all. I'm not going to lie. I was just in it for the sex.

Don't judge me. I was trying to move past Ted and, for the most part, was succeeding. It really helped that he was showcasing that scary, hopeless romantic side of himself over the Slutty Pumpkin. The obsession seemed goofy and pointless, and strangely enough it gave me a weird sense of relief. I, Robin Scherbatsky, was no longer the object of his affections. That crown had been transferred to the head of a woman who had once dressed up as a scandalous vegetable. Fruit? Vegetable? ...Fruit. Seriously, what the hell is a pumpkin?

Anyway, the pressure was off to be the Girl of Ted's Dreams, which I knew came with a pair of Very Difficult to Fill shoes.

One less man to disappoint, right?

I listened to you express loudly your appreciation for Halloween and all its scantily clad wonders. Halloween, according to you, was a time for all the ladies to "unleash their inner ho-bag." I rolled my eyes. You had bright, predatory eyes, and I kept my fingers wrapped around the stem of my wineglass. My cool, cold wineglass.

I bet it wasn't hard to disappoint you.


End file.
